


some day (not far away) I’ll meet you there

by Taeyn



Series: a lot of explosions for two people blending in [8]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Fireflies, First Kiss, First Love, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Realism, Pre-Canon, Stargazing, spiritassassin summer exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taeyn/pseuds/Taeyn
Summary: “Absolutely not,” he says cheerily. “If this was a joke it would bemuchfunnier, less expensive, and definitely wouldn’t require anyone to lose an eye in the opening line.”Baze, who had been setting back his shoulders in a bid to appear more menacing, finds the comment so unexpected that he chokes out a snort.The novice scrunches his nose, considering.“…most of the time.”





	some day (not far away) I’ll meet you there

**Author's Note:**

> Collected Poems, Prayers and Meditations on the Force are taken from Guardians of the Whills, by Greg Rucka c:

_In darkness I follow,_

_the light and find my way_

_to the beginning_

_again,_

_and again,_

_and again_

\---Sajar Ohmo, Clan of the Toribota

From Collected Poems, Prayers and Meditations on the Force

Edited by Kozem Pel, Disciple of the Whills

 

The sun is hot, the marketplace full, and the shouts that follow him louder and closer with every step.

Baze ran.

“Stop him!” comes a voice, Baze recognises it without needing to turn. “Stop thief!”

He should have kept running. Another few corners and he’d make it to Soldiers’ Lane, there’s a gap in the narrow stonework that his pursuers wouldn’t know about, let alone be able to fit through.

“We’ve got you now!” joins a second voice. “Better start saying your mantras!”

There are five of them, one of him. They are acolytes, all of them, three years his senior at the temple. Baze knows he should keep running.

“Thief!” comes the cry again, and Baze digs the soles of his boots into the ground, sand spraying out in front. He turns to face them, glaring, fists clenched and his jaw gritted, breath sucked through his teeth.

Baze never could stand liars.

Triumphant, the acolytes slow to a jog, fan out to either side of the street. At the centre is their leader, pale and smirking, a braid of black hair snakes behind his ear. The older apprentices call him _Spirit,_ supposedly because he’s harder to pin in a fight than a ghost.

Baze is fairly certain Spirit started this rumour himself.

He’s also fairly less-certain in his own sparring abilities with each step the older student takes.

How in the universe did Spirit suddenly get so _tall_?

“You’re the thief!” Baze spits, making up in anger what he lacks in years. “You’re just embarrassed that I caught you at it! You bring shame to the Order!”

The words echo over the trading stalls, the rest of the group starts to smile. Only Spirit’s face remains hard, his mouth flinches at one corner, tight. For a moment Baze almost regrets it- he knows nothing of Spirit’s life before the temple, and once again his emotions have gotten the better of him.

His guilt evaporates a second later when he sees something flash in Spirit’s palm- _a piece of glass? a rock?_ \- and there’s no longer room for anything but instinct. Baze reaches to the ground for a branch- not as good as a pole but it’ll do- when a hand darts behind him, fingers closing firmly around his wrist. Baze startles, Spirit stops in his tracks.

Standing next to Baze is one of the new novitiates, not a week past his pledge. His eyes are blue as water, head shaven and tunic far neater than Baze’s. In his free hand he’s holding something too, and unlike the acolytes, it isn’t a weapon.

It’s a crystal.

The same crystal Baze saw Spirit attempting to steal not ten minutes earlier.

“I paid for it,” the youth says simply, tips his head as if listening for something. “With my monthly allocation.”

When Baze doesn’t answer, the youth offers his crystal to Spirit instead.

“You wanted it- and here it is. So now you can go.”

A silence prickles between them, even the streetsellers have stopped their chatter. Baze turns, only a fraction, tries to catch the boy’s eye.

 _Get out of here,_ he thinks fiercely, twitches his head in another attempt to get the novitiate’s attention. _I can handle getting a black eye by myself, idiot._

Though the youth doesn’t move, there’s a tug at the corners of his mouth that implies he understands.

And chooses to completely disregard the suggestion anyhow.

“Is this some kind of joke?” says Spirit, eyes darkening as his tone lowers. The smaller boy looks genuinely surprised.

“Absolutely not,” he says cheerily. “If this was a joke it would be _much_ funnier, less expensive, and definitely wouldn’t require anyone to lose an eye in the opening line.”

Baze, who had been setting back his shoulders in a bid to appear more menacing, finds the comment so unexpected that he chokes out a snort.

The novice scrunches his nose, considering.

“…most of the time.”

Baze shoots him another grin, realising his amusement is possibly as ill-advised as any joking comments in the first place. The other acolytes are closing in, and Baze has the distinct impression he’ll need more than a few mantras by the time this is done.

But when the newcomer glances toward him, slowly- almost _mischievously-_ returns his smile...

Baze abruptly decides it was worth it.

“ _Kāishǐ zhàndòu,_ ” Spirit snaps to his friends, and the marketplace erupts in chaos. Baze charges forward, aims a flying kick toward the older boy’s shoulder and misses spectacularly. Spirit’s fist swoops into his jaw with a force that leaves him reeling.

“Think you’re so devoted-” Spirit snarls, lands another blow to Baze’s rib cage “-poking around, _spying_ on people in the streets-”

To Baze’s left there’s a crash, something like breaking wood, another sound like the squish of rotten fruit.

“-no spying required-” Baze hisses roughly, he’s out of breath from the punch. “-‘could’ve seen you stealing that crystal if I was blind.”

He curses as Spirit trips him, a welt of pain shoots through his ankle as he lands.

 _You’re still breathing,_ Baze wills, furious at himself for not seeing it coming. _You can still get up._

He does, only to receive another two strikes, one to the throat and one to the chest, Baze collapses coughing to the ground. Spirit lifts his boot, ready to crush his heel into Baze’s knee. Baze rolls, quick but not quick enough, he grimaces for the inevitable sting.

It doesn't come.

Baze hauls himself upright, desperately tries to collect his bearings. Behind a plume of dust there’s a scramble, two figures are trading hits where Spirit stood not a moment before. Baze lunges toward them- he’s ready to help, or at least get punched again, he can see the blurry outline of a tunic and-

“Okay-!” howls Spirit, the haze clears and Baze sees him holding up both hands. “Okay. Okay.”

The acolyte spits, and Baze can see there’s blood in it. Around them, his companions look no better, two are already shuffling backward in retreat. Astonished, Baze tries to close his mouth before he inhales any more sand.

“Okay,” the young novitiate agrees, cups both palms in front of his chest. It’s a traditional token of respect, and with a sudden pang, Baze realises he hasn’t seen anyone make it since his father passed.

“May we meet again as allies,” the novitiate finishes, completing the offering by nodding toward his clasped hands.

With a vicious glower that implies anything but, Spirit does not return the gesture. Scrambling upright, he whips a hand over the dust on his robes, barks a few less-than-cordial expressions toward his remaining followers. There’s a dark smudge across Spirit’s nose, his silhouette almost garish in the shadows. He glances unsettlingly over his shoulder as the group makes their way back to the temple.

Baze is quiet. He wants to ask his new companion how. Or more to the point, _why_.

...he wants to say thank you.

“Who taught you to fight?” is what comes out, more a growl than a question. His ankle throbs worse every times he puts weight on it, and Baze is beginning to feel a good deal more shaky than victorious.

The boy dips his chin toward his collar, the edges of his mouth pull to a frown.

“You’re hurt,” he murmurs, though Baze is sure he concealed his wince. “You don’t know how to fall properly.”

“Of course I know how to fall,” Baze says tersely, crosses his arms in exasperation. “Whattaya think I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes?”

The smaller boy glances up, brims to a wry smile.

“What I don’t know,” Baze continues, gruff, “is how _you’re_ still standing.”

The novice’s expression turns thoughtful, he scuffs the toe of his boot where the crystal landed in the sand. Baze can see it’s a rose kyber now, a network of strange, earth-coloured veins running through its core. When Chirrut finds it, he kicks it neatly up into the air, catches it in his fist.

“You know,” he answers honestly. “Neither do I.”

He tucks the stone back into his pocket, gives an amicable shrug.

“I’m Chirrut,” he offers. “Perhaps our friends fight better in the temple than in the street.”

“I’m Baze,” Baze replies, hovers stiff and awkward. From everything he’s seen, he’s pretty sure Chirrut would do fine with both. “I… don’t think they’re our friends.”

“Maybe,” Chirrut returns, curious as if he never considered otherwise. “Maybe not just yet.”

There is a small silence. When Chirrut smiles again, Baze finds himself surprisingly lightheaded, takes a reluctant few steps in an attempt to clear the sensation.

“Wait,” says Chirrut, swiftly moving to Baze’s side as a burst of pain floods up his ankle. “Easy... let me help.”

He drags Baze’s arm over his shoulders, but the taller youth freezes, frowns.

“I don’t need help,” says Baze, already worried he’s leaning too heavily. “I just need to learn to fight better.”

Chirrut doesn’t let go, gently adjusts his posture to balance them.

“Well…” he says slowly, that same smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I could help you learn to duck.”

In spite of feeling like he’s about to pass out, Baze chuckles.

“Yeah,” he breathes, and together they start to walk. “That too.”

They make their way, Chirrut pausing every time Baze pretends he doesn’t need to. In the distance, the roof of the temple burns gold against the red of the sky, and for a ridiculous half-second, Baze almost wants to point it out to Chirrut. His stare flickers, stops when he realises Chirrut is already looking straight at it.

And his pupils don’t move at all.

“Chirrut…?” says Baze, feeling clumsy when the right words don’t come.

_But he… but surely…_

“You can describe it to me,” Chirrut offers, reassuring. “The sunset.”

He squeezes Baze’s shoulder, and while Baze is only just beginning to comprehend, he suddenly feels as if he had all the strength in the universe.

“It’s bright,” Baze starts, and when he starts to doubt that’ll make sense, an unfamiliar urging in his heart shows him that it does. “It’s the colour of stars when they begin, the colour of worlds when they end. It’s like a flare- or an explosion- one last bang before the night.”

“Yes,” whispers Chirrut, closes his eyes as the light touches his features. “It always feels so warm before the dark.”

They watch, and Baze suddenly feels much older than he is. He’s known them only by word, the meditations of the Force, that time and the laws of the universe can be moved by that which surrounds them. He wonders how long he’s known Chirrut, if he could keep finding him again, and again, in every world and in every life, that he might always stand by his side.

A second later and the light shimmers, the sun slips behind the horizon and the rooftop is nothing more than brick and stone.

“Ah,” says Chirrut, he can sense it too. “We’ll be finding our way back by shadow.”

Baze shakes his head, his voice sticks in his windpipe. Above them is a spattering of stars, they blot through the darkness like ink on a scroll. There are so many- more than Baze has ever seen, and he can suddenly trace all the invisible threads between them, read the stories he knows and doesn’t yet see.

Chirrut takes him by the hand.

-

_In darkness I follow,_

_the light and find my way…_

_-_

“Quick!” giggles Chirrut, now taller and breathless, there is festival ink all over his arms from carrying his lantern. “Light them up!”

The city is colourful, thrumming with noise, they’ve scaled the temple walls and Baze has nearly dropped every single one of his matches. He holds his breath to keep from laughing, eventually manages to strike a flame. They send the lanterns high into the night, Baze gives a running commentary of just how many others theirs almost collide with.

...and then Chirrut kisses him.

 _Kisses_ him.

Baze blinks. In a single, shattering second, his heart is soaring higher than the flames, higher than their wishes and up, popping bright into the dark. Chirrut kisses him again, deep and longing, palms caged rough at his jaw and fingers loose in his long hair.

“Are you going to kiss me back?” he asks, his smile warm and wry against Baze’s lips.

“Yes,” croaks Baze, feels Chirrut’s thumbs skipping over his cheekbones. “I just wasn’t sure… I didn’t know...”

Chirrut leans in, this time his kiss is gentle. His arms fold around Baze’s neck in an embrace, Baze holds him tighter than he thought he knew how.

“Of course I do,” Chirrut whispers.

-

_...to the beginning_

_again,_

_and again,_

_-_

“Chirrut, I feel like I’m sinking,” Baze utters, the blades of grass oddly spongy beneath his weight. They lie in an open clearing, ferns swaying with the heat of the night. Baze isn’t used to so much green, _Jedha_ isn’t used to so much green, but once every hundred years, apparently it really does rain.

“What are we waiting for, anyway? All these plants… are you sure they’re not poisonous? According to the Tome of the Whills-”

Chirrut reaches across, presses his hand over Baze’s mouth before he can finish.

“We’re waiting for you to listen,” Chirrut answers, a fond smirk in his voice.

Behind Chirrut’s fingers, Baze grins. He sighs, recalls their meditation exercises and tries to clear his mind. To his surprise, the silence is replaced by a low humming, it seems to flutter up from the earth and surround them. Baze sits up in astonishment.

“How did-”

Chirrut hushes him with a finger, gentle. All around them are fireflies, they rise up from the grass in trickles of yolk and bronze, spinning and weaving toward the sky. They whisper past Baze’s ear, blinking and fragile, whir in hazy circles as Chirrut softly lifts his arms into the air.

“They all have a sound,” murmurs Baze.

“They all have a life force.” Chirrut smiles back. “With this many, it’s like I can see.”

Baze gets to his feet, feels the light hover around him. When he closes his eyes, Chirrut is there waiting for him.

 _Run with me,_ Baze thinks to say, a wild, joyful energy swelling in his lungs.

“Dance with me,” is what he whispers, tentatively offers his hand.

“I thought you’d never ask,” says Chirrut.

-

Another flash, another night, Chirrut’s ceremonial braid bounces as he leaps into Baze’s arms.

“We’ve done it!” Chirrut yelps. “Sworn Guardians at last!”

Baze hugs him back, giddy, Chirrut pretends to lift Baze up (then Baze really _does_ lift Chirrut up) and they both collapse laughing behind the temple.

“Alright, alright,” Chirrut splutters, waves his hands like he can’t hold it in anymore. “I was going to save this until you finally beat me in a fight, but ten years is getting a bit long to wait, so tonight will have to do.”

“Oh I’ve beat you in a fight,” Baze says loudly. “My higher path is letting you pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Clearly mine is jogging your memory, since it _actually didn’t happen_.” Chirrut grins, gets to his feet and reaches to haul Baze up. He takes a breath, waits till Baze is in a suitable state of suspense.

“I copied the key to the rooftop!”

“You copied the what to the whatnow?” Baze blurts, stunned. While Baze has perfected the art of landing them in trouble, Chirrut’s more often the one to get them out of it.

Nodding, Chirrut doesn’t let go of his hand, Baze almost trips as he’s pulled toward the turret door.

“Do you trust me?” Chirrut teases, Baze tries not to grin.

“No. But that hasn’t stopped me so far.”

They race up the winding stairs, footsteps light and soundless on the stone. When Chirrut wedges back the hatch that leads to the rooftop, Baze nearly falls over for the second time that night.

He’d expected the stars, the constellations, silence and each other. Instead he finds hundreds of strings from every roof-pole, criss-crossing and winding all above. Suspended from the web are tiny, intricate flowers, no colour or pattern the same, all folded from dyed paper scroll. They bump and twirl in the breeze, Baze’s eyes go blurry and his throat tight. It must’ve taken Chirrut forever and a day to make all of these, let alone get them all up here, and...

When Baze turns, his partner gently sweeps down to one knee.

“Will you marry me?” says Chirrut.

-

The last glimpse is brief, Baze can see the creases below Chirrut’s eyes. The temple is burning and they watch, they watch crate after crate of kyber being carried out.

“They wear white,” says Baze, low. “Hard and shiny, like a melted sugarpod.”

“I can feel them,” murmurs Chirrut. “But it’s like they’re faraway.”

The soldiers dump the crystals into a loading tank, even Baze can hear them shattering at the bottom. Chirrut winces like he’s in pain.

“We should go,” says Baze, but Chirrut stills him with a touch to his elbow.

“We should stay,” Chirrut answers, soft. “A fire never burns brighter than before a storm.”

Baze leans into him, Chirrut’s arms are steady and strong.

He no longer feels lost.

-

There are others, so many others. Chirrut brews him tea every day when he’s sick, recites awful jokes until Baze relents and drinks it. Spirit making their friends laugh with a speech at their wedding, his hand on Chirrut’s shoulder as he promises he isn’t actually crying, he just has something in his eye. Chirrut guiding Baze’s hand as he inks the meditations of the Force, Baze inking a silly painting of them both disguised as Masters instead. Chirrut traces a fingertip over the strokes as they dry, smudges the paintbrush across Baze’s upper lip as soon as Baze doesn’t expect it.

There’s a lot of laughing, a lot of near-misses and explosions, and more often than not, they all go hand in hand.

Baze opens his eyes, feels Chirrut’s fingers thread between his own. The streets are alive and busy, the temple silhouetted on the horizon. The visions are fading out, whispers and silk, they scatter like fireflies and Baze can no more keep them than he can follow.

“What did you see?” Chirrut whispers, and Baze knows a part of him has seen it too.

“So much,” says Baze. “We have so much to become.”

Chirrut smiles, wide and glad. Across the city, the chants have started at the temple, all flute and drum and song.

“... if we’re not exiled from the Order for being late,” Baze adds, slowly smiles back.

They walk shoulder to shoulder, the night strange and fiery and theirs. When they reach the gates, Chirrut raises his hand, presses something cool and rough into Baze’s palm.

“You should keep this,” he says softly, the sliver of rose kyber warming to Baze’s touch.

“For luck?” asks Baze, his jaw feels slightly less swollen as he offers a crooked smile.

“For me,” says Chirrut, and Baze closes his fingers over Chirrut’s.

In the space between their hands, the threads of the galaxy glow unexpectedly bright.

-

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading! :'3 comments & kudos are always adored and appreciated, or [say hi to me on tumblr~!](https://thisideofthegalaxy.tumblr.com/) <3


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